


For The Smoke

by NotRoyalty



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship, You could interpret it as romantic if you look at it that way, a little character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotRoyalty/pseuds/NotRoyalty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liz is faced with Christmas, and the reality of what Red did to her father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> This is set an indeterminate time after season 1, ignoring any events of season 2 so far.

"It's Christmas, you deserve a break."

That's what Red had said when he was leaving the Post Office after the take-down of that week's blacklister. The very last thing Liz wanted was a break. Break meant more time in her apartment with its blank walls, echoing spaces, and packed boxes that she couldn't seem to bring herself to unpack. 

There were two piles of boxes. Liz surveyed them, running her fingers over the scar on her hand. One of the piles was the dregs of her life with Tom that hadn't been confiscated as evidence. The other was her father's belongings. 

Turning away from the boxes, she moved to the kitchen were the few things she had unpacked were sitting on the counter: a wineglass, a bottle opener, and a bottle of wine. That was all she really needed. 

"It's Christmas, you deserve a break."

Liz downed the last of her first glass of wine and glared at the snow falling outside. "Merry Christmas," she told the empty apartment, her words echoing. 

A year ago she would have been so happy for a break around Christmas. For Liz, Christmas shopping was hit-and-miss. If she found the perfect gift, it was great, but if not, it was terrible. Liz would have gladly dedicated hours to finding Tom the perfect gift.

If only he wasn't a lie. And dead.

Liz finished her second glass and moved to her laptop. She was going Christmas shopping, regardless of the fact that she had no one. 

No father, no husband, two friends, and Red. 

She knew what she would get Agent Ressler: gloves. He was always complaining about how cold his hands were. Gloves were perfect for him. 

Aram... he was more difficult, but Liz was pretty sure that if she stopped by the mall, she could find some gadget he would like. 

Liz found herself on her third glass of wine staring at her the list she had made (only two items). The only other person she was close to was Red, and she really didn't want to get him a present.

Sipping her wine, Liz got up and flipped open the first of her father's boxes.

What would you even get a man who was a criminal mastermind. Did he have hobbies? The only thing she'd ever seen him work on was the music box. 

Her father's music box. Why on earth was she even considering what she might give him if he hadn't committed murder (several times). 

Liz paused in the act of pouring more wine. 

Red had killed her father. 

As a profiler, Liz knew full well that people were complicated, but Red really brought it to a whole new level. On one hand, he seemed fiercely protective of her, but on the other hand, that protectiveness lead him to kill people in the name of keeping her safe. The protectiveness implied that he did, in fact, have some kind of moral compass, but the killing suggested that he had the ability to completely ignore it. 

Liz picked up the first object in the box: her father's lighter. She couldn't count the times she had seen him take it out and light a cigarette when she was a young child. The red paint was worn off the top, and there was a scratch along the side that Liz had made when she dropped it at the age of fivev. To be honest, she was shocked it had lasted as long as it had. Tears welling up in her eyes, she dropped it back in the box. In a way, that lighter had killed her father. 

She had to admit, that her father's death was surrounded by a question of morality. Red had said he knew her father almost his whole life. He might be able to ignore his moral compass most of the time, but if he had killed her father with impunity, then he simply wasn't human. 

Was he telling the truth then? That killing Sam was a mercy? 

At Quantico, Liz had written a paper on the occurrences of 'angels of death' at hospitals, people who killed those in pain and about to die out of what they saw as mercy. What Red had done was no different. 

Leaning back against the wall, Liz toyed with the scar on her hand.

She wasn't going to forgive Red just like that. Sam had been trying to tell her about her birth father. No, she was still angry. 

Frowning, Liz pushed herself upright, intending to go to bed, where she would undoubtedly spend the next three hours staring at the ceiling and considering the shambles of her life.

* * *

 

Liz went shopping the next day. She almost laughed when she found a  _world's #1 hacker_ mug for Aram. All things considered, she was happier than she had been yesterday when she got back to her empty apartment. 

The boxes seemed a little less somber, and the echoes of her movement seemed a little smaller. 

Then someone knocked on her door, and Red was on the other side. 

"House warming gift," he said, holding up a bottle of wine. 

Liz leaned against the door, staring at him for a moment as the tiny bubble of happiness iced over. Reaching out, she took the wine from him and let him inside. 

"It's a lovely place," he said, eyes moving around the apartment, "and the view is fantastic. It reminds me of-"

"Why are you really here?" Liz asked, setting the bottle on the counter.

Red turned around, hat in his hand.

"Is it really so surprising that I would just stop by to say hello?" he asked, feigning insult.

"Yes," Liz deadpanned.

Red pursed his lips.

"A blacklister," he said raising his head. "Spanish smuggler, but I just received information that he was killed outside a little town called Monterosso in Italy when his car went off one of the cliffs. No foul play involved. Very boring."

"Well that's just too bad," Liz said sarcastically, but she'd be lying if there wasn't a tiny bit of truth in the statement for her.

"Very," Red said, eying her. "Don't worry, Lizzie," he said after a moment, "the holidays will be over soon, and we'll be back to business as usual."

"Why are you not giving us any names?" Lizzie asked, leaning on the counter. "Criminals don't take Christmas off."

Red laughed, "You'd be surprised. They have families too, you know," he said, setting his hat down.

Lizzie looked down at her hands, drumming her nails on the counter. 

"I'd love to stick around and help unpack boxes," Red said, picking up his hat again, "but Dembe is waiting, and I have something I need to attend to."

Red was gone by the time Lizzie looked up. 

That night, Lizzie unpacked all her clothes searching for her wrapping paper. 

* * *

 

Ressler loved his gloves. He grinned and thanked her before going on about how excited he was to be getting home to Virginia to see his parents and sisters. Aram laughed out loud when she gave him the mug, and chuckled that his wife would love it. Liz hadn't even know he had a wife. 

When she got home, she unpacked all of her dishes. Staring at the stack of plates, she picked up her phone and called for take-out. 

"Miss me already, Lizzie?" said Red Dragon Chinese. 

"You're not take-out," Lizzie said, and hung up. Barely had she taken the phone away from her head when it was ringing again.

"What?" she sighed, hearing Red laughing on the other side. 

"I had no idea you were telling the truth about Chinese food being on your speed dial."

Lizzie put the plate down on the counter resolutely. "Well, you got moved up after I deleted Tom's number." 

Silence fell as Lizzy ran her fingers over the plate's edge where Tom had chipped it. 

"You're in luck," Red said abruptly. "I was just going out to eat. Join me."

Lizzie opened her mouth to say no, but at the sight of her empty apartment, her whole brain just went  _what the hell_.

"I was one of the first customers this place had," Red said, staring up at the Italian restaurant as Lizzie came up next to him. "The owner is this incredible little woman from Milan. Couldn't speak a word of english, but still came here to start her own restaurant after her husband was killed in an unfortunate incident with the Bratva."

"I take it you had a hand in that unfortunate incident?" Lizzie asked, staring up at the sign.

Red shrugged. "What can I say, I can't say no to a woman who makes risotto alla milanese the way she did. I may have mentioned to the Bratva that he was in Italy."

Lizzie shook her head. First she was having dinner with the concierge of crime, and now she was eating at the restaurant of a woman who contracted her own husband's death.

But considering that her husband had been working for a man who killed pretty much everyone he came in contact with, it was almost a step up. 

After the risotto was gone, Lizzie leaned back, toying with her spoon.

"How are you, Lizzie?" Red asked finally, regarding her.

Lizzie looked up at him, the spoon spinning in her fingers. "I'm angry," she said finally. 

"Understandable," Red nodded.

"My husband was a lie," she said, leaning forward. "Everything we had was a lie."

"It's not your fault, Lizzie," Red said gravely.

"I killed him," Lizzie said, her eyes sliding out of focus as she stared into the dark snowy street behind Red, "and I don't feel as bad about it as I should." Her eyes came back and looked at Red. "And I think that's because of you."

Without breaking eye contact, Lizzie took a sip from her wine. The expression on Red's face was unreadable, but when the waiter walked by, he asked for the check. 

"I'm sorry," he said as he was helping her into her coat. "I am."

"I know," Lizzie said quietly. 

* * *

 

Christmas eve came around, and Lizzie went to the house Red was staying at. It was a little place with a red door and the lingering smell of cinnamon and burned wood. The furniture all looked like it had been homemade and there were height marks on the doorframe of the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas, Lizzie," Red said, looking up at her brightly with a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Is it?" she couldn't help but asking as she sank down at the table. 

"All Christmases are merry," Red said, pouring her scotch. "If not to you, then to someone."

He raised his glass, and Lizzie mirrored him. 

"I understand," she said, taking a sip. 

"What do you understand?" Red said, sitting opposite her. 

"I understand why you killed my father," she finished, looking up. 

Red didn't respond. 

"And I don't forgive you for taking away my chance to say goodbye," Lizzie plowed on. "But I understand why you did it."

"Thank you, Lizzie," Red said quietly, looking up at her with that rare expression of age. 

They didn't speak of Sam again that night, and when Lizzie left hours later, she left Red's present on the kitchen table. 

She knew he'd appreciate the significance of her father's lighter. Red probably had more memories of him using than she did. Not to mention how he would smile at the irony of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really disappointed in most of The Blacklist fanfiction right now. Getting the characters right is really hard, and I'm not sure if I managed it in this fic. I tried.


End file.
